


Picture Perfect

by redmacallan



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redmacallan/pseuds/redmacallan
Summary: Family means no-one gets left behind, or forgotten.Oh, and seeing each others' embarrassing old photos. That too.





	Picture Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> A huge huge thank you to biting_moopie for giving me the idea and then beta reading this. Thanks!

Kallus still really has no idea how he ended up as part of this family.

It  _ is _ a family.  _ Crew _ is too formal a word for them. Sure, a crew might fly in a ship together, and repair said ship together, and make each other caf in the morning, but they rarely put up posters and mementos in the ship, probably don't make seven different in-jokes every time they're doing repairs, and definitely don't hand over the caf with a kiss and a "Morning, love.”

Crews don't chase each other down hallways cracking insults at one another. Crews don't blame someone farting on the nearest droid. Crews don't sing awful karaoke with each other when they're in hyperspace. 

And crews  _ definitely _ don't show each other their old family photos.

It's Sabine who starts it. Her mother sent her back from Mandalore with a bag stuffed full of spices and family albums, and she flicks through the pictures at dinner. Ezra laughs at them, especially the ones where she's trying on her mom's helmet and it's too big, but they're sweet.

Even Kallus likes it, though he doesn't say much. It's enough to be surrounded by these people ‒ actually joining in with their conversations is something he hasn't quite mastered.

There's one, though, where Sabine is brandishing some toy blasters, that makes Zeb guffaw, laughing until he's hunched over into Kallus's shoulder, the rumbles shaking both their bodies.

"What's so funny?" asks Kallus, though he's smiling.

Zeb peers around the table, the remnants of his laughter still reverberating in his chest. "I've got one like that." He grins. "Lemme go get it."

And with that, he scrambles to his room and pulls out a holopad from under his bunk. When he brings it back, Kallus can see it's a non-standard design, small and caked in dust, presumably from age.

"One of the few things I had on me after Lasan," he announces to the table, his voice hesitant on the word  _ Lasan _ . "Standard Honor Guard kit, so you can be identified. Should have my old ID pic on there, at least."

There's more than just ID. There are several group photos where they have to zoom in to see Zeb ‒ some of the Guard as a whole, some of his old training squad, and there's one of him beaming into a crowd, another, older Lasat stood beside him about to hand him the Honor Guard regalia.

"When was that?" asks Kallus.

"I'd have been, uh..." Zeb thinks for a moment. "Twenty-six, in that one." He laughs. "So, quite a while ago."

He scrolls onto the next one, and the image looks even older. Young Zeb looks like a ball of fluff and reckless energy, those same green eyes peeking out from under his brows, the first hints of his beard forming on his chin. He's brandishing a very obviously fake bo-rifle, shouting at something out of the photo's range, his mouth curled into a childish, playful grin.

"That's the one," Zeb says, glancing at Sabine. 

She snorts. "Now everyone else needs one of those."

Ezra slouches ‒ really, for a Jedi, he's got  _ awful  _ posture ‒ and says "I don't think I'll have many. Wasn't exactly taking photos as a kid." 

"You're still a kid," retorts Zeb.

"I'm  _ sixteen _ ."

"Exactly."

Ezra huffs. "What about the rest of you? I bet you've got some embarrassing ones,  _ Agent _ ."

His former title's said with a bitterness Kallus has come to expect. Zeb's hand squeezes his arm in support, but he doesn't need it  ‒ he knows Ezra's just annoyed. "Even if I did, the majority are either destroyed, in the Empire's archives, or somewhere on Coruscant." He smirks, his default response to Ezra when he's like this. "I doubt we have time to go looking for them."

Kanan and Hera's answers are similar, the former's destroyed along with the Jedi Order and the latter with her house blowing up. No-one bothers asking Chopper. Hera says he's basically always been the same.

Zeb brings it up again as they get ready for bed. "Sorry about Ezra. I wanted to know what you were like as a kid."

Kallus laughs humorlessly, the one he does when he's feeling uncomfortable. "Probably awful. Xenophobic. I'm glad we never met then."

"Eh, we'd have been alright." Zeb strolls over to him, keeping a step away from Kallus so he can pull on his shirt without elbowing Zeb in the face. "How'd small Kallus look?"

"Like me, but without the sideburns." He finally finishes pulling on his shirt. "And with much curlier hair, since it was longer."

Zeb sighs contentedly and runs a hand through Kallus's hair. "You're growing it out, right?"

"Yep." He leans into Zeb's hand.

"Mmm." Kallus raises an eyebrow at the reply, but says nothing. "That'll be nice."

Kallus chuckles. "It'll probably end up going scruffy and you'll beg me to shave it off."

Zeb scoffs. "With your level of hygiene? Really?" He turns Kallus round to face him and grabs his hands. "So, did you have freckles? Or did those come later?"

"Freckles. Lots of them. I burnt easily, too."

Zeb's hand brushes the smattering of freckles on his shoulder, the faint remains of a sunburn on his skin. "You still do."

"...I had braces."

Zeb laughs so hard it shakes his whole body. "Well now we've  _ got _ to find those photos."

The opportunity to find them presents itself sooner rather than later. They get assigned a mission on Coruscant. Very stealthy, they're told.

That usually means "very boring", according to Zeb, who chooses to stay behind. After all, it is really just camping out on a mid-to-lower level of Coruscant, planting a transmitter, and checking it works over a period of time. No fighting involved, if they can help it.

Still, Kallus could use a boring mission. His leg's been playing up more than usual, and he figures it'll be nice to give it some rest on a planet he's actually familiar with. 

It also gives him to opportunity to find those photos.

He slips away to his childhood house on the third day of being there, in the mid-afternoon when he knows most of Coruscant's upper class will be out. He hates himself for still knowing the address, the very idea of his childhood home reminding him of his years in the Empire, but by the time he's around his old neighbourhood, the route seems like second nature to him.

His hood's up the whole way through, hoping he can pass as a trader of some sort in the sea of people. It's surreal, he thinks as he steps out of the airspeeder, to be surrounded by only humans. He's so used to the mix on the Ghost and in the rebellion in general that to only see human faces on the street, all speaking in formal Coruscanti accents, seems like some strange dream. He barely feels like he belongs here anymore.

His old house ‒ his parents' house now, he supposes ‒ stares down at him, cold and judgemental in the half-sunlight.

He refuses to give it the pleasure of staring back. 

Instead, he puts his training as an agent to good (well, semi-good) use. The side of the tower is fairly easy to scale, the windows open at a certain frequency, and the doors all use standard locking codes.

It's not exactly hard.

His old bedroom's been redone, but he wasn't expecting otherwise. Likely they've disowned him by now. A quick search under the bed yields nothing.

He heads into his parents' room, opening the cupboard in the wall where they used to keep things they didn't let their children see. If they were going to hide some shameful family photos, it'd be there.

Kallus eases it open, careful not to leave prints.

There’s a thick layer of dust that he ignores, knowing that wiping it away would make it obvious he was there. Beneath it, though, are several boxes. One is crammed with what look like datapads with medical information, but another, further back in the cupboard, looks like it might have images.

He flicks through them, eyes scanning over the people in the photos, until ‒

Perfect.

He stuffs the few images into his pocket, shuts the cupboard door, and retraces his steps, leaving without a trace.

The images get stowed away into his bag as soon as he's back at their transmitter, and they're mostly forgotten about until the mission's over and they're back on the Ghost.

It's dinner again when it comes up. There's a lull in the conversation and something jolts in Kallus's head, reminding him of the images.

"Oh, I..." and he trails off as everyone turns to look at him ‒ he's still uncomfortable with that ‒ "I found some holopics. Of me as a child."

There's a moment of silence.

Ezra speaks. "You  _ have  _ to show us. Now. You can't say that and not show us."

So, he stands, slinks off to his room, grabs the pictures from their box, and brings them through. Everyone huddles round as he switches the first one on.

It's of him, dressed up formally and looking far too uptight for a six-year-old. His mouth is pulled into a tight scowl, and from the side, one of his aunts glances at the camera.

The crew's wide eyes and open mouths tell him everything he needs to know ‒ that they were expecting a shorter version of the Kallus they know now, as opposed to a shorter version of the Imperial who used to want them dead.

He sighs and flicks on to the next one.

It's slightly more natural, he supposes. He's older, dressed more casually, and his mouth's half-open, as if the picture was taken halfway through a sentence.

Zeb snorts. "You really  _ did _ have braces."

"He  _ what?! _ " Ezra explodes and leans across the table, peering at the image. His eyes flick over the braces. "You  _ did _ ."

"Mmm." Kallus flicks to the next one, another where his damned braces are showing. "There's another."

Ezra cackles. Kallus can't blame him ‒ he  _ is  _ pulling a face in the photo, after all. Sabine joins in, another laugh filling the air. "Nice face, there," she mutters.

Kallus just smiles, scrolling through the rest. There are a few school ones, one from a party, and then one just before he left for Royal Imperial, kitted out in full uniform. His mother stands beside him, smiling sadly, and his father's a step away or so. His expression looks forced.

"Are those your parents?" Ezra asks, softly.

"Yes." He sees no reason to lie. "They never really liked me though, and they certainly wouldn't now." He takes a deep breath. "I'm happier here, anyway."

Ezra opens his mouth to say something, but Zeb elbows him before he can. "Not now, Ezra."

Ezra scowls and gulps down the remainder of his soup. The group dissipates slowly, leaving the huddle around the table until it's just Kallus, still staring at his own pictures.

Zeb walks back into the room, hands slightly damp from having washed up. He sits down beside Kallus, joining in with him in staring at the pictures.

"That one's cute," he remarks, in that quiet voice only Kallus is ever meant to hear.

Kallus smiles. "You think so?" he murmurs, and switches the holopic off. 

Zeb nods. "Yeah. Nice seeing 'em."

"I was worried I was boring you all." He's using his soft-and-just-for-Zeb voice, too. "Or being too forward. I've never been part of a crew that shows each other their old photos."

"First time for everything." Zeb lets out a long sigh. "Listen, I... I know it's hard to share about yourself, but..." Zeb tangles their fingers together. "It helps in the long run. I promise."

Kallus stares down at their hands, fingers interlinked tightly, and smiles.

Those people in the pictures may have been his parents, but this is his family.


End file.
